Rise
by Pale Treasures
Summary: A suffering Mary attempts to comfort herself and regain her strength. One shot.


**Disclaimer: **Whatever there is to own belongs to Showtime, Michael Hirst, etc., not me.

**Rating: **K

**Author's Note:** I haven't set this piece in a specific time, but I've imagined it as taking place between seasons 3 and 4.

* * *

_**Rise **_

The world was a very cruel place. Perhaps it was wrong to say so, but the gloom and disappointment of her adult years rendered her unable to come to any other conclusion. There had been a time when she had believed the goodness and wonder of the world – it would surprise people to know that, no doubt. But there had been a time, in her heart of hearts, when her girlish hope and innocence had been greater than anything else, when she had believed such a thing. Trials existed, perhaps they were even necessary, but goodness and justice always prevailed. Now she realised she had been wrong. How could she feel such a thing so intensely – know that to live was an unjust and harrowing business – when she believed just as intensely that there was a greater order, a greater purpose for the world?

She was tired, truly tired. All strength had left her body; she had been left prostrate. She did not think she could believe anything else, tell herself that there was still hope for her hereafter. Why must everything be so hard for her, when all that she desired was what was rightfully hers, no more? Why could no one see that she only wanted to do good, because, in spite of her grave and icy demeanour, she still loved everyone, truly, even those that did her harm, and would gladly care for them, if given the chance? Perhaps if she were more beautiful... more cheerful... less clever, more biddable, she would win everyone's heart. Including her father's. But she was not, and she was incapable of degrading herself by wishing she was any different. No, she had no wish to be anything other than what she was. She was not ashamed to be herself. Why should she be? God had seen fit to make her exactly like this, and, in any case, the force of her will overpowered even her piety. To even contemplate looking down upon her character as a whole – flaws included – was contemptible to her. She did not consider it haughty, and hardly ever took pause to think of it that way. It was simply part of her nature, too deeply rooted in her to be aware of.

Still, sometimes, when she was in the brink of utter despair, she wondered if things might be different if she were somebody else. Charming, gregarious, glib like Elizabeth. Sweet and endearing like Edward. If she lifted her skirts – God forgive them – and abandoned all propriety for the sake of her advancement. If she were not a slave to her convictions, unlike countless men and women in court. No, she could never not do what she felt in her soul to be right, and as such she was condemned to forever be misunderstood. That was what she was – a rarity, a freak. Perhaps it had been her fate since her birth. Mama had suffered for it too, bitterly and most unfairly so. If she were still alive, she would be a comfort to her – the two would share a deeper bond forged from their suffering and console each other. Living would be less painful then. But she was alone. She had been alone for many years, now. And if she had not succumbed before, she must not do so now.

She believed herself almost beyond the capacity to shed tears, at this point. The pain sat inside her, roaring, barely subdued, fixed itself to the barren land of her flesh and thrived there, quietly. She felt its presence for days, months on end. It was an unwanted but familiar visitor, that one could almost bid welcome with a sad sort of melancholy, as though reuniting with an old, wayward friend. Perhaps her nature was of too severe a sort to ever know what to do with happiness, should she conquer it. But she longed to know how that would feel like. Once, she had been like everybody else – beloved by her father, by the people, held in great esteem, thought to achieve great things. She was to be a queen. She could barely remember those times, they felt so distant, so unreal. Had they truly happened at all? Even if they had, the likes of her could never retain such blessings for very long. It might as well have been a dream. All there was left to do, in case she was determined to live in the past, was to collect the shattered fragments of that dream and attempt to piece them back together, for the rest of her days.

But she no longer clung to the past. She no longer cried for something so far from her reach. The pain remained there, yes, always – but what good would her tears still do? No one remembered the hurt they had caused her by taking everything from her. She could not go as far, but she must not permit herself to be crippled by it. To think how some would delight in knowing that she felt so alone, so desperate! It was unbearable. For that reason alone, she must never give them reason to suspect her true feelings.

Still, her fortitude had not borne her far. It merely kept her from sinking utterly; she remained uncertainly afloat, not beaten but not victorious either. Would it be like this for the rest of her life? Would she never know what other women – even those who were not of royal birth – knew? Would she never have a husband who loved her – whose eyes lit up upon her entrance in a room? Would she never have her own children? Sometimes, she longed for it more than anything. She would give up her hopes to sit on the throne as queen if she knew she could be a mother, with someone to love wholeheartedly. She would lovingly guide and protect her sons and daughters, make them good, honest, God-fearing people that England would be proud of. She would love that so greatly! But the years passed, she grew a little older every day, her body changed imperceptibly and her womb withered, empty still. She was almost resigned to the fact that she might never bear any children. But she could never quite cease hoping.

The life of so many was filled with colour, activity, change – hers was grey, flat, never changing, or, at least, never for a good reason. It cut to the very heart of her that she was continuously standing on the outside, watching others live, borrowing their happiness to taste, at the lack of knowing her own. She imagined – there was nothing else she could do. And sometimes she was so ready to abandon conviction, obstinacy, goodness, to experience some of what they did. To be loved and cherished in this incomplete, imperfect, form. Would it truly matter, that she was not the best she could be, as long as she was happy, as long as she was important to someone?

But she was incapable of reconciling herself to such a notion. The strength of her character was too great – it would stand as it was, to be accepted in its completeness, or not at all. And so she remained alone. With only hope to carry her through.

With her finger, she wiped the smallest tear that trembled precariously on her lash. Yes, she felt unimportant, unloved, with the strengthening suspicion that no one would greatly miss her if she died. Yes, apart from Chapuys, whom she cherished deeply, she was friendless. No glory, perhaps no simple joy would be hers. She would not stand a saviour to the masses of England – Protestant and otherwise. Perhaps she would die alone, when her dreams were naught but withered, dry leaves in her sunken breast. But to break herself for it – to weep and debase herself because of it – to abandon all that she was, to disappoint her mother, to turn from the commands of her own heart! Never. She could not. No human hand, hers or anyone else's, would bend her. No human will could wrest her from the path she had deemed right for her. They wanted her tears? They found glee in their misery? Well, they would not have them.

She would yet rise, as she had every time. She would prove, if only to herself, that she was strong. Even if her dreams never knew fulfilment, even if she never tasted happiness of her own, she would still stand and live as serenely and conscientiously as she was able, to the very end. She would laugh in the faces of those who wished her harm. Misery would not cripple her – loneliness would not harm her, but only embolden her. She could live with their company, she had done so before, when she was younger of years and more naïve of heart. She could continue do so now. Mama would not want her to be weak. She would want her to get back on her feet and face life with courage. She had done the same to the very end – why could she not do likewise? Was it not the least she could do, to honour her memory? Did she not carry Spain in her blood, as much as England?

Those who wanted her feeble and desperate would face quite a different picture. Those who wanted her dead would have to deal with her living. She would not die. She would not break. Whatever it was that God had in store for her, she would wait and meet it expectantly. And if she was meant to die in loneliness, she would not cry – but only thank the good Lord for her strength and that He had allowed her to live at all, when so many, in less desperate circumstances, with greater blessings than she, were bent and crushed and found themselves unable to ever stand up again.


End file.
